And I can’t scream, not with the duct tape over my mouth. Not that anybody would hear me, but still. If I could, I’d sure as hell try.

I tell myself he’s not going to hurt the kids. That he’s not going to sit them in a chair, press his gun to their little heads and pull the trigger. That the pistol he’s been waving around is for me. I’m the one he wants to intimidate. If he was here to murder us, he would have done it the moment he stepped out of the shadows. Why go to all this trouble just to torment us? I tell myself he’s here for something. Money, probably.

Please, God, let it be money.

I stare at the sliver of empty hallway, and the upstairs layout flashes through my mind. Walls, doors, all the corners and blind spots. There are two ways into that playroom, through those double doors out in the hallway, or an interior door we never use, one that leads to a hidden hallway and the guest room bath behind me. We keep it shut to accommodate the furniture, a marble console table with, next to it, a potted fiddle leaf fig.

Which means if I could somehow manage to break free, I could get to the kids from this room. Sneak through the hidden hallway, shove the door open and the furniture aside. Surprise, asshole. Mommy’s here.

Bad odds, though, considering he’s the one with the weapon and I’m stuck to a chair.

Still, I look around the room for something I could use, taking in the furniture and decor—the rosewood and brass bed, the matching nightstands, the Herman Miller dresser, all of them impractical. The closet is empty, nothing but plastic hangers and a flimsy wicker hamper, and there’s nothing useful under the bathroom sink. I consider the bedside lamps, two complicated things of metal and glass anchored to the wall. A third lamp, a floor model, weighs practically nothing.

The vase, a couple of books, a vintage lucite bowl, a flawless Ritts from the sixties. A little bulky, maybe, but solid enough to bash in somebody’s head. I just need to get to it first.

I struggle against the rope, but the damn thing only pulls tighter.

Beatrix’s face. Oh my God, her face when that man tied me up. While Baxter chattered away about some stuffed gorilla he wanted to fetch from his room and the Xbox game Santa gave him for Christmas, Beatrix stared at the back of the man’s head and said nothing. Empty eyes. Slack jaw. The kind of expression she gets from watching too much TV, or on a car ride that’s taking too long. No fear. No fury. Just...nothing. Her face was like a dead zone. When this is over, she’s going to need a lot of therapy.

Assuming we survive.